


what you see

by chameleonchanging



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Suicide Attempt, caveat emptor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:59:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26517085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chameleonchanging/pseuds/chameleonchanging
Summary: Some people lash out to express their pain. Others implode. It’s been a long three years and the burdens of leadership are getting to Plo, though he hides it well under his mask. And then a mission goes wrong and an argument with Wolffe tips him over the edge.Two weeks later, Wolffe gets a notification from the crew in the engineering department about odd power readings from the General’s quarters. His containment field is up. The atmosphere exchanger is off. No one’s seen the General in 24 hours. What he finds -
Relationships: Plo Koon/CC-3636 | Wolffe
Comments: 16
Kudos: 96





	what you see

When the door slides open, it seems for a moment that nothing is wrong. Plo’s quarters are as tidy as ever, sparse in decoration, and the containment field hums at its usual frequency. Behind it, Plo’s bed is made neatly, his desk straightened with a datapad in the center, his favorite stylus parallel to its edge, a cup wrapped in ribbon next to that. It’s all that remains of his favorite tea set, gifted to him by his master on his Knighting. And Plo himself is sitting on the floor like he always does, wedged between the table and the couch, staring back at Wolffe in confusion, his brows furrowed, his mouth slightly open as he tries to find words. 

His shape is too well-defined, unobscured by the haze that Dorin gas lends to the air. When he speaks, he’s so quiet Wolffe has to put in his earpiece and rely on his helmet mic to hear him.

“How can I help you, Commander?” he says, blinking slowly, his tongue fumbling over the syllables. He makes no effort to get up. 

“What are you doing?” Wolffe demands. 

“Dying,” says Plo. 

“Where’s your mask?” Wolffe casts his gaze around the room. He finds the rebreather on a cabinet on his side of the field and snatches it up. “Why aren’t you wearing it?”

Plo doesn’t answer. He tips his head back lazily, exposing his neck as he leans against the cushions. He takes a deep, measured breath. Wolffe’s heart rate ticks up. He smashes his fist against the field, rebounding with a tiny fizzle of sparks. 

“Drop the field,” he orders. “Now, Plo. Drop the field. We’re going to the medbay and Catch is going to fix whatever’s happened to you.”

“No,” says Plo. “I don’t think there’s anything to fix. This is how things should be. I’ve had time to think. This is the right thing.”

Wolffe brings his wrist to his lips. “I need an emergency medical team and rapid entry squad to General Koon’s quarters immediately,” he snaps. The confirmation comes through muffled. “Let me in.”

“I really would rather not,” says Plo. “Actually, Commander, I’d prefer it if you left me entirely. There’s nothing for you to concern yourself with.”

“What are you talking about? You’re my - my General, my partner,  _ of course _ I’m concerned -“

“I’m not,” says Plo. “I never wanted the first, and I can’t be the second.”

“That’s not what you said -“

“I was wrong.” Plo turns his head to look at Wolffe. “I was irresponsible. I never should have allowed myself to pursue you. You haven’t lived - you don’t know anything outside -“

“ _ Fuck you _ ,” Wolffe snarls. “I decide what I want -“

“I can’t be part of the future you want,” says Plo. “You’ve already realized it.” 

“You’re a fucking moron, Plo, and you make decisions I don’t agree with, but that doesn’t mean-“

“I want you to leave me,” says Plo. His legs slide flat under the table. One of his hands presses against his side, like it hurts to breathe. Wolffe grits his teeth. The door opens behind him, and troopers spill in, looking warily between the two of them. 

“Take down the field or cut through the wall. We’re extracting him,” Wolffe orders. “I don’t care how you do it, I want him out.”

“Belay that,” Plo says.

“He’s not in his right mind and unfit for command,” Wolffe snaps. “Get him out now. Now!” he roars when nobody moves, and half the troopers disappear out the door. He starts pacing. “You fucking moron - you  _ coward  _ -“

“I know,” says Plo. His voice clicks as he says it. “I know.”

“For no reason!”

“Because I lost my way,” says Plo. His pain spills into the room. A sharp twinge erupts in Wolffe’s chest. Around him, the medics wince and press their hands over their hearts, but the feeling fades as quickly as it had come. “I let them die. I killed them. I had no right. I’d rather die than allow myself to exist.”

The words are chillingly familiar. 

“You made a decision,” Wolffe says desperately. “I understand why you made it even if I disagree. That doesn’t mean -“ 

The wall begins to glow as the extraction team cuts their way in. For a moment, it seems like Plo is mustering up the strength to stop them, but he lets out a few forlorn clicks and gives up. He looks to the ceiling again, his chest rising and falling shallowly. 

“I should have saved them. I should have been better. What right - what -“ he mumbles, and then he goes silent. Wolffe presses as close as he can to the field, ignoring the uncomfortable buzz against his skin. The sharper edges of Plo’s mask dig into his skin. He stares at the man, his wandering gaze, his limp form, and can’t understand how this could be happening. Plo Koon, High General, Master Jedi and Councilor, die? Like this? Abandon his men and his family? To an episode of insanity? He wants to scream, to rage, to shake his General until he comes to his senses. But all he can do is watch him breathe. 

“Wake up!” he demands. “Fuck you, Plo,  _ wake up _ !” He slams his hand against the field once, twice, three times before a medic stops him. 

“Leave me,” Plo whispers, just in time to stop Wolffe taking a swing. “Please. Forget me. Don’t pretend anymore. You can’t want me. You can’t.”

The wall moves with a rumble and the entry team rushes in to disable the field. In the next second, the medical team is moving, hiding Plo from sight as they work, and Wolffe can only stand there dumbly, outside of the chaos. The few glimpses of Plo he gets are sickening; his skin tone is all wrong, and stretched out on the ground with his tunic cut off, it’s obvious he’s been bleeding and hiding it. Wolffe approaches on unsteady feet. There are burn markings across his belly and new cuts across his arms. Maybe he’d been hiding some of them two weeks ago, but Wolffe doubts it. He really, really doubts it. 

He falls to his knees by Plo’s side, in one of the only places not occupied. Plo looks awful. Someone had fit a mask over his face, and his breath fogs the plastic. He’s got wires attached all over him. The portable monitors beep and chirp. All of it fades into the background when he meets Plo’s eyes, silvered and hazy and so pained. 

“Can I hold him?” Wolffe asks, his voice cracking. No one answers, but no one stops him from pulling Plo into his lap, cradling his head against his shoulder, rocking back and forth on his heels. 

“You  _ child _ ,” Wolffe hisses, still torn between his rage and his horror. “We’re going to fix you.”

“You don’t want me,” Plo says. He meets Wolffe’s gaze with tremendous effort. “I still love you.” 

Wolffe presses his lips to Plo’s forehead. It’s all he can do.

**Author's Note:**

> “There comes a time when you look into the mirror and you realize that what you see is all that you will ever be.”  
> ― Tennessee Williams


End file.
